Of course they're flying drills - the rest of the wing dismissed, Teya and Ryglinath high in the sky working through maneuvers, translating them from paper into practice - when it happens.

Grief slices through them both, grief and pain; it's sudden, shocking, and Ryglinath is caught wrong on an updraft as he turns, a bank that turns into a plummet before he catches himself hard. Teya's stomach rolls just as hard, churns as the keening fills the air, fills her mind, cuts soul-deep.

« Who, » she manages, fear and bile clawing their way up her throat; « which one, » follows it, whispers back across the mindink as she white-knuckles his straps.

"No," is spoken aloud, a half-whisper choked back on the edge of a sob, "no, no, no, no-" it isn't cold enough, isn't bitter enough for Ryglinath to have gone ::between:: but they're home, their landing a hard scrabble of talons against stone.

Even the stone is crying; the whole weyr rings with draconic sorrow at the loss of one of their own, at the loss of their weyrwoman; Teya hits the ground running - no.

Teya's legs go out from under her; she goes down hard, catches her weight with knees and the stinging palms of her hands; her empty stomach heaves.